


When the night grows cold

by tictactoews



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Getting Together, Halloween, Love Confessions, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 02:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5074177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tictactoews/pseuds/tictactoews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s spent countless hours preparing for Courf's Halloween party at the Musain. Grantaire loves Halloween, with the slightly creepy aesthetic of it all, and the opportunity to stop being himself, for at least a little while. He wasn't going to miss it for the world, let alone for the common cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the night grows cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRussianKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRussianKat/gifts).



> To my recipient: I loved both your requests, but there's just something about a stubborn Enjolras that's extremely appealing to write :) So here you go, a sickfic with a Halloween-y twist. Enjoy and Happy Halloween! <3
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta for making sure this was readable <3

"No."

Grantaire looks himself in the eye, staring at his bathroom mirror, trying to verbally convince his body to give up this sickness nonsense. It works poorly, if not at all, given that his "no" sounds more like "doe" than anything else right now.

He sighs and shakes his head, feeling instantly dizzy, like his forehead is weighed down by several pounds of lead. He's nothing but determined, though, and he’s not going to let a simple flu get in the way of tonight. He spent too much time hand-stitching his Halloween costume and planning the face paint design to go with it. He pulls out the paints and gets to work, and he has to stop to sneeze only seven times.

**

"Whoa, you went all out!" Courfeyrac exclaims when he sees him. Even Combeferre gives Grantaire a once-over, and Grantaire feels stupidly proud.

He’s spent countless hours preparing for Courf's Halloween party at the Musain. Grantaire loves Halloween, with the slightly creepy aesthetic of it all, and the opportunity to stop being himself, for at least a little while. He wasn't going to miss it for the world, let alone for the common cold.

Now he grins at his friends, twirling around to show off his costume with a swish of his black, silky cape. The only things he hadn't made himself were the shoes and black jeans, but he'd stitched the black patterns onto the red button-up shirt himself, from the same silk he'd made his cape. Add some red and black paint and some very tasteful horns, and he makes one handsome devil.

A slightly woozy and sniffly devil, but handsome nonetheless.

"No half-measures for a Courf party," Grantaire says, and fistbumps Courfeyrac's hairy glove. "Nice dress, bro," he says to Combeferre, who immediately drops into a dainty curtsy. They both look fantastic, wearing very faithful Beauty and the Beast costumes. "Yellow is definitely your colour. Who did your makeup?"

"Eponine," Combeferre says. "Jehan offered, but I didn't think I could deal with that amount of glitter."

"Well, gentlemen, I will bid you a temporary goodbye as I really need something to warm me up. It's cold as balls out there," Grantaire says, touches one of his horns in a salute, and leaves for the bar.

As he looks at the rows of bottles behind the counter, he begins to have second thoughts. Before he left the house he'd stuffed himself up to the gills with cold medicine, and those probably shouldn't be mixed with anything stronger than chamomile tea. Grantaire figures his liver takes enough abuse daily as it is and doesn't need the extra strain.

"A coke, please," he croaks out to the bartender. Yeah, he probably shouldn't smoke, either.

The sound of his voice causes another person, whom Grantaire didn't even notice before, to turn around and face him. "Grantaire?"

"Apollo? Holy shit!" Grantaire manages to get out. It's not the first time he's been rendered speechless on the sight of Enjolras, but this time he as an actual reason other than being a lovestruck idiot.

Enjolras looks-- _something._ He's wearing something that would look like a regular sheet if it didn't have a silky sheen to it. The material is pulled tight around his waist by a golden belt, and it flows right down to his ankles. His blonde curls seem to have been sprayed with glitter, and there's a golden laurel wreath on his head. In his hands he's holding a wooden bow. He looks like an avenging angel, or-- well, like Apollo. Take away the brown leather shoes and he'd be ready for a party on top of Olympus.

"Finally embraced the mockery? I'm impressed," Grantaire says with a grin. "What's with the bow?"

"I didn't have a lyra handy," Enjolras replies dryly. "Is your voice a part of the costume?"

"It's a part of a tiny, insignificant cold that will be gone by tomorrow," Grantaire says, unable to tear his eyes away from Enjolras's bare arms, veins visible as he grips his bow tightly.

"You shouldn't be here," Enjolras replies, frowning.

Grantaire lets out a deep sigh. "I'm fine, Apollo. See? I'm not even drinking alcohol. I'm behaving. Please let me have fun for once? The world won't end, I promise."

 

Enjolras looks at him for a few moments, and Grantaire has seen this look before - not directed at him, though. It's the look Enjolras gets just before he tackles a particularly difficult problem.

When Enjolras opens his mouth, Grantaire expects the rest of the lecture, but instead Enjolras says "Wait here!" and disappears with a swish of silk.

Grantaire has long since resigned himself to always doing as Enjolras says - or at least give it his best shot - even if he doesn't particularly agree with it. So he stays at the bar, sipping at his coke and watching the people slowly filling up the dark room.

Courfeyrac seems to have invited absolutely everyone he's ever met, and told them to bring friends, because the only people Grantaire can recognise are a few people of Courfeyrac’s immediate circle. He can spot Jehan on the dancefloor, but only because he's wearing neon pink; other than that, there aren't many amis around yet.

Enjolras comes back after a couple of minutes, wearing a coat.

"I'm taking you home. Where's your coat?"

"I didn't take one, I live two minutes away. And, what?"

"Are you kidding me, R? No wonder you sound like a frog choir. Here, you idiot," Enjolras says, unwinding the big, fluffy scarf from around his neck and wrapping it around Grantaire's. "There, now maybe you won't die."

"I'm not going home!" Grantaire protests. "I've only just got here, and I can't disappoint Courf. You know he's been so excited about this party."

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Courfeyrac gets excited about the 5% off special on muffins, as well," he says, and yeah, fair point. Grantaire doesn't say that out loud, though, just keeps glaring at Enjolras, hoping he'd give up his sudden and inexplicable mother henning and let him enjoy the party.

And maybe leave him the scarf; it feels amazing around Grantaire's sore throat.

Enjolras folds his arms in front of him, holding Grantaire's gaze. "Do you really think you can out-stubborn me?"

"I can try," Grantaire grumbles, but his resolve is already weakening. The meds he's taken are nowhere near strong enough to stop his head from pounding from the loud music, his nose is starting to run again, and speaking feels like he's swallowing razors.

Still, he doesn't need to ruin anyone else's night. "Fine. But I can go home alone, no reason you have to babysit me."

"Grantaire, how long have I known you?" Enjolras asks casually.

"A year? A little more? I don't know, what's your point?"

"My point is, you can be trusted with taking care of yourself about as far as Courfeyrac can be trusted to not overuse glitter."

"Make your costume, did he?"

"Just the hair," Enjolras says. "I'll be washing that stuff out till Christmas."

"If you're lucky. Fine, Apollo, you may walk me home and lock me in," Grantaire relents, and Enjolras ushers him out of the party with a satisfied smirk.

“What happened to your bow?” Grantaire asks as they’re walking in the crisp, almost-November air.

“Gave it to Eponine. She’s Robin Hood, she can handle two,” Enjolras says, making Grantaire laugh, which leads to a nasty coughing fit that stops Grantaire in his tracks. Gasping for breath, he barely notices Enjolras hovering next to him, awkwardly placing one hand on Grantaire’s upper arm.

“Hey, easy, easy,” he soothes, in a gentle voice that Grantaire is not used to being directed at him. “Come on, we have to get you out of this cold air,” Enjolras adds, tugging Grantaire by the sleeve. Grantaire doesn’t tell him that it’s not much better in his apartment. For some reason, Enjolras is worried about him, and much as it strokes Grantaire’s ego, he doesn’t want to upset Enjolras even more. He’ll say goodbye on the doorstep, then bury himself under a mountain of blankets for the rest of the night.

Unfortunately, Enjolras insists on going inside with him. “I’ll make you some tea while you change and get the makeup off, this way you can go to sleep faster,” he says. Grantaire wants to argue, but Enjolras has a point, and besides, the sooner Grantaire goes to bed, the less of Enjolras’s time he’ll be wasting. He already feels bad for dragging him out of the party, even if technically Enjolras was the one to do the dragging.

Grantaire leaves Enjolras in the kitchen, grabs a change of clothes, and goes to the bathroom. He decides to just take a hot shower - this will both wash off the face paint and hopefully help his poor sinuses.

When he comes out of the bathroom, dressed in an old t-shirt and his comfiest pair of sweatpants, Enjolras is in his bedroom, sitting on the bed and holding a steaming mug of tea. 

“Do you have any meds?” he asks, standing up and handing the tea to Grantaire.

“I took some earlier, but they didn’t help much. Waste of time, if you ask me. I’ll have a nap, that’ll help more.”

Enjolras looks skeptical, but nods. “Yeah, get some sleep. And, uh, can we talk later?”

Grantaire frowns. “I’m not going back to the party. But maybe tomorrow?”

“Right, yeah, sure. Tomorrow,” Enjolras says. “Well then, goodnight?”

“Night, Apollo. Go forth and reclaim your weapon,” Grantaire says, and smiles at Enjolras. After Enjolras leaves the room, he puts the tea on the nightstand and crawls into bed. He’s so exhausted he passes out within seconds.

**

Grantaire wakes up partly because his nose is so congested he can barely breathe, and partly because there are very suspicious smells wafting into his bedroom from the rest of the apartment. He checks the time; he’s only been asleep for a couple of hours, and it’s still pretty early in the night. He gets up and goes to investigate the situation.

To his endless surprise, he finds Enjolras in the kitchen, dressed down in jeans and a dark red henley, cooking some sort of a soup by the stove. The warm light of the overhead lamps illuminates his hair, still sparkling with golden glitter, and makes Enjolras look quite at home. It also makes Grantaire’s chest ache in an entirely too familiar way, but he can’t bring himself to complain. Who is he kidding, of all the people he wants to see when he’s sick and miserable, Enjolras is the absolute winner any time of any day.

He coughs to get Enjolras’s attention.

Enjolras looks up from the stove and smiles at him uncertainly. “Hey. Did I wake you up? I’m sorry, I tried to be quiet.”

“Did you come back?”

“No I-- uh, I never left. You’re really sick, you shouldn’t be alone. Sorry I let you think I was leaving, I shouldn’t have tricked you, but I know how stubborn you get.”

“You sneaky bastard,” Grantaire says, impressed, and Enjolras gives him a grin. “Although, you’re the one to talk.”

“Yeah, not really my idea. That’s what Cosette did to me once, when Combeferre was out of town and I had the flu. That woman is not to be underestimated, I tell you.”

“Well, it’s still brilliant. And, uh, not totally unwelcome, especially given that you cooked for me.”

“Figured you’d be too tired to do that, and you shouldn’t be taking these on an empty stomach. Here,” Enjolras says, reaching for a small plastic bag on the counter and tossing it towards Grantaire. “Combeferre dropped them off; should work better than the stuff you had before.”

“And what happened to your costume?”

“I asked Ferre to bring me a change of clothes while he was at it. It was terribly uncomfortable.”

“Uh-huh, you just didn’t want to get any splatter on your fanciest outfit, admit it.”

Enjolras laughs. “If that were the case, I could have just used one of your frilly aprons,” he says.

“Hey, don’t diss them, they were a gift, and they’re just as practical as they are becoming,” Grantaire says, grinning back. “Why did you dress like that, anyway? You hate that nickname.”

“You sure about that?” Enjolras says, giving Grantaire an inscrutable look.

“You always glare at me when I call you that,” Grantaire argues.

“I’ve been told my facial expressions don’t always match my feelings before, I guess that’s just one of these cases,” Enjolras says, making exactly zero sense to Grantaire. “Anyway, I didn’t have the time to snoop through your kitchen very thoroughly, so if you could get out a couple of bowls? This is just about ready.”

Grantaire generously allows for the change of topic and hands Enjolras two bowls from the cupboard, then digs out two spoons from the drawer next to the stove.

Enjolras fills the bowls, places them on a tray, and picks the whole thing up. “Let’s eat in the living room, it’s warmer in there,” he says.

“What? How?” Grantaire says. The heating has been shot for a week now, and the landlord was taking his sweet time arranging for repairs. Grantaire noticed the warmth in the kitchen when he walked in, but he thought it was just the result of the hot stove and steaming soup. When they come into the living room, though, it’s pleasantly warm, and there’s a cheerful, roaring fire in the fireplace that Grantaire hasn’t used in about a year.

“Okay, are you an actual wizard? I didn’t have any firewood, so unless you’ve burned my bookcase--”

“Nothing so drastic, I assure you,” Enjolras says, putting the tray on the coffee table and sitting down on the carpet in front of the fire. Grantaire joins him and lets the comforting presence of fire, hot soup, and _Enjolras_ wrap around him. There seem to be legit wooden logs in the fireplace, something that Grantaire definitely didn’t have lying around, so he shoots Enjolras a questioning look.

“I called Feuilly, he brought me a few logs from his house on his way to the party,” Enjolras explains. “Wish I had taken a picture, though, you should have seen his costume.”

“Let me guess, Tinkerbell?”

Enjolras snorts. “No, but close. He was the Marion to Eponine’s Robin Hood.”

“Well well well, I did not see that coming,” Grantaire says. “Wonders are all around and it’s not even Christmas yet.” 

Enjolras doesn’t reply, just hands Grantaire his bowl of soup and takes the other one for himself. They eat in silence, and Grantaire is already starting to feel more human. After they’re done, Enjolras makes him take the meds Combeferre brought, and they settle in front of the fire.

Grantaire doesn’t want to break the peaceful mood, but he can’t get Enjolars’ words about needing to talk to Grantaire out of his head, now that his head is clearer. He can’t imagine what it could be about, if it’s a good or bad thing, and after a few minutes of his thoughts spiralling out of control, he can’t take it anymore.

“You said you wanted to talk to me, before,” he says. “Now seems like a good time?”

Enjolras looks thoughtful, eyes fixed on the burning logs. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“So?” Grantaire prompts, softly.

Enjolras sighs and looks at him. “I was planning to talk to you at the party, actually. That’s why I chose that costume.”

“You can talk to me without fancy dress, you know?”

“I thought it would, I don’t know, break the ice. Ease the process.”

“Enjolras, you’re enigmatic on a good day, but now I’m high as a kite on cold meds, so please, small words, clear messages?”

“The meds haven’t kicked in yet,” Enjolras says. “And I don’t know how I could possibly be more obvious. I mean, even Courf figured it out as soon as he saw me.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whines. “Please start making sense.”

“Only if you stop being deliberately obtuse,” Enjolras says. “Come on, R. I dressed up as the nickname you, and only you, are calling me by. I pretty much invaded your home to cook for you and nurse you back to health. The only way I could make it clearer is if I taped pink hearts over my eyes.”

Grantaire stares at him for a good few moments, dumbfounded. ”Are you saying--”

“I wanted to ask you out, at the party. But then you looked like you were about to fall over, so I decided against it, but being around you makes me stupid, so-- here I am, doing it anyway.”

“You want to go on a date. With me?” Grantaire asks.

“If you want,” Enjolras says.

“If I-- fucking hell, Enjolras, _if I want?_ I’ve only been pining for you for a year, so yeah, I suppose that would be alright!”

“You- really?”

“Now who’s oblivious?” Grantaire says, grinning. He looks at Enjolras's face, illuminated by the soft glow from the fire, odd bits of glitter sparkling on his cheeks, and has to close his eyes for a few moments, not really able to believe this is all happening. When he opens his eyes, Enjolras is looking at him fondly, and Grantaire has only one thought left. “I’d really like to kiss you now but I’m probably contagious, so-- raincheck?” he says. He doesn't really want to wait, but he should give Enjolras that option.

“I don’t care,” Enjolras says, to Grantaire's massive relief, and leans in.

The kiss is gentle, hesitant, and a little awkward, but it’s the best one Grantaire has ever had. He clutches at Enjolras’s arms, holding him close, grinning into the kiss from delirious happiness.

“You’ll get sick,” he says, but he can’t stop himself from pressing a series of kisses into Enjolras’s cheek while Enjolras wraps his arms firmly around him.

“If I do, you can cook for me. It’s only fair,” Enjolras says, nuzzling Grantaire's hair and no doubt getting glitter all over it. “Do you want to go back to sleep? You still look tired.”

Grantaire shakes his head, burrowing deeper into the heat of Enjolras's body. “The bedroom’s freezing. Can we cuddle on the couch and watch cheesy movies instead?”

Enjolras presses a kiss to his forehead. “Any time.”


End file.
